


Simultaneity

by afogocado



Series: Past and Parallel Lives [1]
Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Friendship, Hurt/Comfort, Priest!Matt, Romance, Slow Burn, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-05
Updated: 2015-10-05
Packaged: 2018-04-24 21:59:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,400
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4936888
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/afogocado/pseuds/afogocado
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>[In which the reader has a sensual encounter with Priest!Matt.]</p><p>You’ve always found comfort in the familiar. So much so that you crave the sickening feeling of déjà vu and those who elicit that unshakable feeling somewhere deep inside of you. </p><p>In which, the reader and Matt Murdock meet in past, present, future, and parallel lives. Sometimes the reader ends up with Matt and sometimes they don’t. Some of these will end or begin in smut and sometimes there will be no smut. </p><p>Disclaimer: I do not own anything related to Netflix Daredevil and Marvel or any other major work that I reference. This is purely for entertainment purposes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Simultaneity

**Author's Note:**

> I’ve been reading The Monk for my Gothic literature course and I thought I would take the inspiration drawn from it to quench the priest!Matt thirst some of us have. (Am I going to hell for this? Sorryyyy.) Matt isn’t blind in this timeline. He will be presented in different ways in different lifetimes. I did my best to write in a style similar to the early Gothic romances, but it is hard and this is just for fun and not a grade.

I: 1796

 

\---  
1

Your hands wad up the sheets tight into your clenched fists. You twist the sheet in sweat-slicked palms and grip the slick fabric with trembling fingers. His grizzled stubble scrapes against your raw neck and cheeks as he pays too much—but not nearly enough—attention to sprinkling lingering kisses down your throat. He roughly taking your left nipple between his lips and suckling hungrily before lightly tracing his teeth around its stiffness. He grumbles and it sounds like your name dying on his lips. He stops and you whimper in protest. He looks up at you, his eyes dark, almost glazed over from lust. 

You lock eyes with him questioningly (but not ignoring how good he looks nestled in your cleavage, hand spread over your stomach) and go to ask him something before you sit bolt upright in bed, in the darkness of your rooms in the abbess you’ve been living in for not even a year. Your mind is reeling and you are panting, trying to ignore the sweat rolling from the nape of your neck to the small of your back. The sweat’s bead traces a delicious line on the way down along your back’s curve until it rests just above your tailbone. 

You smooth your damp hair out of your face and squint around your rooms, thankful that you are momentarily without a roommate. Not that this is anything unheard of—your past roommate, Sister Agnes, ranted about God telling her she needed to leave the countryside and go into one of the sinful cities that would need her the most. Several other sisters went with her, as well as a few brothers from the monastery near the convent.

Ever since her departure, the sensual and lucid dreams about Father Matthew have only expanded and intensified. It isn’t as though you spent much time with Father Matthew at all. You went to his sermons every Sunday with the other nuns and the Abbess to the monastery. Or sometimes, the abbot Murdock and his brotherhood would come to the convent and give his sermon there.

He hasn’t changed much, you think as you trace your nails lightly up and down your abdomen, focalizing on his countenance and frame. Your nipples harden like in your dream. He isn’t exceptionally tall like some of the other priests, but is average in height. His brown hair when caught in the right light can look red sometimes. Your stomach warms at this. His eyes are hazel or brown and you groan thinking about the glimpses of him with his stubble—he is usually clean shaven when presenting himself to peers, but sometimes, you see him out walking in the woods early in the morning or late at night when he thinks no one else is out there. You’ve seen him in secret far too many times. 

This is when he is unshaven, unkempt, bare, and alone. One time, you caught him emerging from the small lake hidden deep inside the woods connecting the abbey and monastery. He’d been dripping wet, panting at the bank, brushing his hair back, the muscles in his arms flexing in ways that must have created sin itself. The muscles hidden beneath his cloak any other day of the week. The moonbeams broke through the trees’ heavy canopies just to show the glistening droplets of lake water on him. You scrutinized his arms as best as you could, committing every curve of his flesh to memory before resting your eye s on his chest and the amount of hair there, flushing deeply. He’d stripped off entirely before going for his late night swim. He stretched his arms, moaning softly, and you drop your gaze to his thighs and see the muscles bulging there, tracing a path up and up, still. You hoped the bushes you crouched behind hid you as well as you thought they were, especially with how it seemed like the moon was getting brighter, still. Your eyes stopped at his hips and then at what was hanging between his legs. Your body flushed indefinitely, sighing at the dark tufts of hair at his pubic mound.

How you then wanted to spring from the bushes and show him that you were there and that you wanted to cup him in your hands and lower your mouth to his shaft, envelope it between soft and warm lips. Show him what you’d been dreaming about for months. Before you could even do that, he took himself into his own hand, tugging gently as it stiffened and lengthened. His thumb ran small circles over the tip. He let out a pathetic whimper and threw his head back, using his free hand to steady himself against a nearby tree. Now deciding that you let your viewing go too far, you backed away as silently as possible and sprinted back to the abbess before you would be missed, 

By now, from perhaps your fondest memory of Father Matthew, your hand has left your breasts and chest and below. You stop thinking about Father Matthew from all those nights ago and leave yourself alone, trying to focus upon other aspects of who he is and what he means to you. 

His sermons are enchanting even though it is difficult at times for you to even deal with your faith. Sometimes you even tune out what he’s saying, too overwhelmed with desire. Too overwhelmed with his finely shaped jawline, the way he can’t stand still or leave his hands alone when he speaks. The way he touches his face and bites his bottom lip in an absent-minded but sensual way when searching for specific page in his bible. 

But, God, how it is difficult thinking about him in any way that wasn’t going to earn you a one-way ticket to hell. 

You recall coming here two years ago with the sole purpose to hear the great orator Murdock speak. It was your father’s idea, as he was fond of traveling. You thought he wanted to come hear him speak just so he could take the trip through the sprawling land and through the craggy and sublime mountainside. Your father strayed from scripture on and off, always valuing the awe and fire that nature and the arts kindled deep in his heart. This rubbed off on you, of course, and you were along for the ride. Your mother had been a bigger fan of religion, though she died when you were quite small and your memory of her mostly consists of images of her face far more than any life lessons or words of any sort she may have given you.

Now, destitute after the death of your father, the only place to turn to had been this convent—the only one in the countryside closest to the area you grew up in and closer still to the properties your father left behind, but didn’t belong to you. Your fever for Father Matthew has made you think about packing up and heading to another convent, but there would be no means of affording the trip. 

You swing your feet out of bed and touch them to the hardwood floor. There is a slight chill and you contemplate crawling back into bed once you’re sitting upright, nude. 

You get out of bed and shrug into a cloak and slip on some shoes, planning to sneak outside again. A clock somewhere chimed midnight only moments ago. Now was the time to leave. 

The abbey was silent on the morning you arrived, much like it is now. You slip outside and into the woods. This isn’t the first time you’d shown up in these parts and near these woods. But the first time you were here was of course under the protection of your father. Navigating your way through the surrounding nature for the first time on your own had been an adventure completely different than anything you’d done before. It was nigh on one year ago that you found your way to the convent and now you were penniless and no less heartbroken—you could not acquire your deceased fathers assets until you married, even though you were of age by now. And the only enjoyment you got out of this strange situation was sneaking out at night to walk the woods til near day break before everyone would wake and find you missing. 

In the woods that stand between the convent and the monastery, there exists a grotto on the edge of the land, adjacent to the small lake you found Father Matthew swimming in and then later pleasuring himself beside. Though the summer is now coming to a close, the trees are still lush and continue doing their job of obscuring the sky once you were in the thick of it. You find yourself in a perpetual and dusky twilight. 

You stray from the set dirt path one must follow if one wishes to find the convent or monastery. Other than that sole path, it’s easy to get lost, as you know. You got lost once, too caught up with the picturesque and pastoral—you almost didn’t make it back to the abbey in time. You lost the path and clutched your rosary in a shaking hand, frail fingers fumbling for beads, crying out our fathers an Hail Mary’s in wracking and breathless sobs.

A priest from the brotherhood, fond of the lake treated it like a fishing hole. He was an believer of the wicked tales of hauntings in these woods and chased down your echoing sighs, hoping to find a specter and tell his brothers that he was not indeed mad about the wood’s rumors, and instead found you.

“Brother Franklin,” you gasped. “I don’t mean to be out here. I couldn’t help it. I just got caught up in the splendor of it all and wandered so easily away from the path. Could you help me find my way back, please?”

His cherub face looks crestfallen when he finds you and not a ghost. He tucks loose strands of his strawberry blonde hair into his cowl and the grip on his fishing pole slackens. “Sister [Y/N]. I thought you were…never mind. Of course I can take you back.” He herded you into the circle of his arm, tightening his grip around you whenever you got uneasy over the darkness.

He walked you all the way back to the abbey, making you promise him you wouldn’t go out after hours or if you absolutely needed to that you would find him and he would escort you about.

But that was in the first week you were there. Now, you’ve snuck out nearly every night and you know these woods almost like the back of your hand. You’ve met Brother Franklin too many times since your tearful first encounter and every time he sees you, he goes on and on about these woods being bewitched, and you wonder if this is what draws you the most to the stillness. Sometimes, you think you hear voices and even music playing in the depths. Though Franklin agrees about the music, you aren’t even sure if you really believe it or if you’re being pulled into his frenzy. 

Brother Franklin share other information with you apart from spooky stories about the woods. For instance, he opened up to you about his fears of Father Matthew possibly being sent to Spain for an undisclosed amount of time. 

Because of this, you decided it’s time to do something about all these dreams.

 

2

 

“Do you think yourself a devil, father?” You want him to agree with you because then you wouldn’t have reason to feel so awful about all the dreams (awake and asleep) you've been having about him. You squint your eyes through the small screen door to scan the hall to make sure the abbess wont be breathing down your neck before too long, or bursting into the room all together.

“I do not think any of us without devils and demons. It is, after all, evidence of our humanity. Milton seems to agree. ‘Me miserable! Which way shall I fly/Infinite wrath and infinite despair?/Which way I fly is hell; myself am hell;/And in the lowest deep a lower deep,/Still threat'ning to devour me, opens wide,/To which the hell I suffer seems a heaven.’”

“’The mind is its own place, and in itself can make a heaven of hell, a hell of heaven.’ Father, my mind is going just this. I don’t know how much more of it I can take”. You hope desperately that he is impressed by you, too, knowing a Milton quote from memory.

“What do you mean?” His voice isn’t sharp, but it is laced with some kind of strange urgency.

“I’ve been having these visions of you, these dreams of you.”

He urges you to go on. You exhale a breath of relief. His tone is more curious than angry. Although, you hadn’t given him anything to be angry about yet.

“Speak, Sister Y/N. I’m begging you. I must know. Are they bad dreams? Do terrible things happen?” You don’t ask how he knows it’s you, as you didn’t give him your name.

“I- I've been having dreams about you. They’re particularly vivid and strong in the couple of days following your Sunday service. I suppose that’s because the image of you is still fresh upon my mind. The content of these dreams is enough to drive me to confession. However, they are so severe, I don’t think I can stay around here any longer.”

“Let’s adjourn somewhere else besides this house.” His voice is deep and rolling but light and kind. Like he could start laughing at any moment, but you don't get the joke.

“Where?” 

“Do you know the grotto in the woods, just past the lake?”

You tell him that you do. You don’t tell him this is where you watched him be by himself. You agree to meet him there within twenty minutes. 

 

3

And now you are left to wonder. Is he a benevolent man or not? And how would you even know? Good boys don’t press their fingers into your hips so deeply and painfully before trapping you between this grotto’s wall and his own body. The moonlight doesn’t even touch the pools of water lapping at the ground near your feet. You had to swim to get here. You truly are alone with him. You worry you’re going to consume his face from attacking his mouth with lips and teeth and tongue. He is stiff against your hip.

“How often do you sin? Tell me.” He is nipping at your neck, hands on your shoulders, threatening to brush your cloak off. 

“I sin everyday, Father. Every fucking day.” You slip your hand inside his clothes, scratching at his lower back. He almost purrs in his throat, tracing his tongue in lazy circles on your neck and then at the shell of your ear. 

“What is your sin, my dear?” He growls this low, plunging his tongue into your ear and then his teeth are not far behind. His breath on the skin his hot tongue dampens is enough to set your nipples erect and when he cups your chest in his hand he groans softly in your ear before pressing his nose into it, resting against you. “You can tell me.

He whispers deftly into your damp ear, “I know you were there that night. When I was swimming? Oh, yes, I knew.” His fingers go to work on your hard nipple, caressing it between his thumb and forefinger. “I saw you watching me.” He grabbed your breast in a handful. “I did that for you,” he says quietly, pulling the white collar out of his black outfit. “What I did after getting out of the water? Yes, I did” He pressed his lips to yours gently, taking your lower lip into his mouth and sucking gently, grabbing the back of your head and pressing you close to him. “Do you know how long I've been with the church?” There is a dark gleam in his eye. Something you’d never seen before in all the Sundays you sat in a corner pew gripping your bible all too tightly, nails digging into the leather cover, biting at the inside of your cheek to stifle any groans threatening to escape. 

“A-a long time?” You don’t know how you find the strength to whisper this. You don’t realize how tightly you are gripping the front of his robes until you tear your eyes around him.

“I’ve thought myself a demon from time to time. But no matter what I contemplated about that, I never thought myself able to go to hell. Until now.” He lets your cloak fall to the ground and shrugs out of his own in turn.

He hooks his hands behind your knees, lifts you up, and presses you into the wall. His knee knocks your legs apart and he positions his hips in line with yours. He attacks your neck again, moaning softly when you grip his member and position it against your slick heat. He whimpers when your hands find his ass and pull him close. 

He gasps in your ear when he enters you partially, reciting in a rumbling desperation, “Ye who are troubled and burdened by sin,/Come just as you are.”

“Matthew,” you cry out.  
He pulls his face back to lock eyes with you. His countenance is hazy, almost bestial. “Give up your sin, let the Savior come in,/And come just as you are.” And with that, he thrusts himself entirely in, flush to you. 

You cry out at his girth, locking your arms around his neck as his grip tightens around your legs. The feeling of his hot skin and length inside your own heat is delicious and sticky and just fits. He pounds into you, a dull throb coming from being beat into the wall. His rhythm is strong, but kind. He nips at your collarbone before spinning you around to where he presses himself against the wall and shifting his hold on you that gives you free reign to grip his shoulders and ride him from this angle. 

He gasps helplessly and lowers you both to an almost sitting position to where he’s on his knees. His lips crash into yours and he moves his passionately against yours, like he’s latching on for life. He pulls you to where your legs are wrapped around his back and your arms tighten again around his neck as he pulls you close to him each time he thrusts into you. You nip at his lower lip. One of his hands tightens on your hip, his other hand goes to caress your face with each kiss he bestows upon you. Your position slips slightly and it feels like something is rubbing a spot not quite behind your bellybutton, but with enough pressure that makes you feel the need to urinate. There’s a familiar pressure building up. You reach down and touch yourself until warmth spreads from inside out and renders your legs shaky and weak around him. 

He gently nudges you onto your back, hugging your legs to his chest. You look up at him and see his eyes are shut tight, his lips moving deftly, as quick as he falls back into you again, again, again. One of his arms is hugging your legs and his free hand goes you your lower stomach, pressing on a tender spot that makes you cry out. That hand slinks down to your tender clit and he uses his thumb to run firm and fast circles around it until you’re crying out his name a second time, but he’s crying your name this time and, “Fuck, Jesus, father forgive me,” before collapsing on top of you. 

The sweat on his chest is cold against your bare breasts, but you pull him close just the same and wrap your legs around his wait. You feel his seed spilling out of you. He looks down at you and you see that his eyes, even this close, are still indeterminable. His stubble scratches your cheek once more before he kisses you chastely on the lips. “We may very well be damned now.”


End file.
